


When I have fears

by thelairoevie



Series: The Eevee Archives [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alcohol, Asexual Character, Asexual Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Autistic Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Fluff, M/M, Oblivious Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Set in Season 1, Tenderness, asexual writer/co-writer, at least a little, martin is soft for jon, some silly moments, the only trauma here is drama, we're projecting in this house
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:14:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26121772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelairoevie/pseuds/thelairoevie
Summary: It's a about being afraid of not having enough time, which seemed appropriate. These are the scenes, the books and beauty they never really had time for.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James & Tim Stoker
Series: The Eevee Archives [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1896601
Comments: 34
Kudos: 89





	1. That I shall never look upon thee more

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, Eevee here. Just wanted to share my pleasure writing, even if it's not very good. Thank you to my new tumblr friend, for encouraging me, my bro Wam for doing a little bit of editing, and my best friend, for helping with everything else. I wouldn't have done this without you. 
> 
> To those reading, hello, and I hope you enjoy this. It's not really meant to go anywhere yet, but there will be more to come!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Statement of Martin Blackwood, and the one time he got his boss to take a break.

When I have fears that I may cease to be

Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,

Before high-piled books, in charact'ry,

Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;

When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,

Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,

And think that I may never live to trace

Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;

And when I feel, fair creature of an hour!

That I shall never look upon thee more,

Never have relish in the faery power

Of unreflecting love!—then on the shore

Of the wide world I stand alone, and think,

Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.

It wasn’t quite intentional for Martin to start showing up to the Institute half an hour before anyone else. He definitely did not want to be tardy, and give his intimidating boss (either one!) a good reason to berate him further. Still, after his first three days of taking a train a little too ahead of time he ended up getting used to being the first one there. Most of the time, he stood near the slivered window of the door, pulled out his phone and looked at dog pictures and checked his emails until Jonathan Simms showed up from outside and unlocked the door. At least, that was how it had gone for his entire first week. He would wait patiently and eventually Jon would appear. He looked skinny and cold in his slightly oversized grey wool coat, dew-wet hair and tired, not-awake-enough-to-be-irritated-yet expression. 

“Morning!” Martin would say. 

“Good morning.” It was probably the nicest thing Jon had to say most days. Before official work hours started, Martin had no intention of clocking in too much overtime, so he would take off his coat, take the mugs off of everyone’s desk, and make tea. It was a nice ritual for every morning at the archives. Before it was time for work to start, the office was a pleasant sort of quiet. He actually liked this calm before the storm, where his normally awful boss was practically peaceful, and took his mug in content silence. He was handsome, Martin noticed, when he wasn’t frowning deeply.

From there the dread of the day would grow with the arrival of Elias, then Sasha and Tim. Then, it would be 9 o’clock, and reality hit. 

“Martin! _Please_ tell me you were actually able to find something related to ‘Ex Altiora’. It should not have been that hard to find.” Jon went from handsome, serious and quiet to grumpy, grumbling, and well… mean. Martin had tried, valiantly, and even asked Tim for a little help to follow up on the latest assignment, but to no avail. He barely escaped with some professional but deep cutting insults to his effectiveness as a researcher and the work was reassigned to Sasha. Not the best day, but somehow after a week or two of working there, not the worst. 

* * *

  
  


It had gone on like this for long enough for Martin to grow comfortable in it. Which is probably why, on one Friday morning, when he came in and the door to the archives was ajar, he immediately thought something was wrong. As he stared at the light dripping out of the crack into the dull morning, he found himself holding his breath, his heart beginning to pound. Was he late? A glance at his phone revealed that it was barely after eight. Did someone break into the archives? He did his best to take a steady breath, and pushed the door open gently. It creaked horribly. 

“Hel-Hello? Jon, are you in early? Sasha?” Nothing was disturbed at all. He was about to let out a sigh of relief and confusion when there was a soft crash behind him. 

He jumped, hair standing up on his neck as he slowly turned around. It came from Jon’s office, or rather, the actual archival room. Someone was in there. Gingerly, he made his way over to the glass of the door and peered inside. 

There, slumped halfway out of his chair, was Jon, fast asleep. His hair had come down and rested about his shoulders, and his cardigan was slipping off of his thin frame into a pool on the floor. Next to it was the tape recorder he had just dropped. It hadn't even woken him up. 

“Oh.” Martin said softly. He gently took the recorder and replaced it on the desk. For a moment, he just stared at the man in the chair. He wasn’t sure if it was the best idea to let him sleep in such an uncomfortable position, or risk his wrath upon waking him up. Jon was handsome in the mornings, but when asleep, he was a whole new creature. His eyes fluttered and his lips were just slightly apart. His normally taught, stiffened form was relaxed and vulnerable, his slender legs pulled up into himself slightly. 

Martin felt something pull at his heartstrings. The head archivist, his boss, was _adorable_ while asleep. Some deep part inside of him wanted to scoop the man up, tuck him into bed, and fall asleep curled alongside his smaller form. He wanted to smile fondly and touch his tousled hair as his heart swelled and his face grew redder. Some shallower, more conscious and more anxious part of Martin thought ‘ _Oh no.”_ He should definitely _not_ be falling for his cranky boss. 

After a few very long seconds, or possibly minutes, Martin regained enough sense to try to wake Jon. Very carefully he reached out and tapped his shoulder, using the voice that he reserved for stray cats and small animals. 

“Hey, Jon. Hi. Hey. Good Morning.” 

Jon barely stirred, except to fall further out of the chair and nearly onto the floor behind his desk. He brought a bundle of papers with him, and Martin winced. This was not going according to plan. Before he could reach out to him again, Jon slipped out of his cardigan and fell completely out of the chair. 

It was by sheer luck that Martin was able to keep the man from smashing his head into the floor. All Jon did to react was make a little noise that made Martin’s chest tighten, and the curl up into a deeper sleep. 

Martin glanced at the clock. Elias would not be in for at least another 20 minutes. He looked back down at Jon’s sleeping form and made the decision to be kind. Taking the cardigan off the chair, he draped it over the shoulders of the smaller man. Very slowly, he tidied up the fallen items, wrote a little note for when Jon woke up, and then left to make his usual cuppa. 

Exactly 15 minutes later, his flustered and still _extremely attractive_ boss emerged from the room. “I suppose I should thank you, Martin. You should not expect that to happen again.” He was awkward and stiff when he spoke, but his voice lacked it’s usual bite. 

Martin extended a cup and some biscuits at Jon. “Did you even go home last night?” 

Jon’s sigh was exactly as he expected. “No, I…” For a flash of a second the vulnerable man was back, but he was immediately replaced by the usual frown. For an almost unnoticeable instant, he looked afraid. It was like watching a fern roll up into itself after being touched. 

“If we were making any sort of _useful progress_ , Martin,” He snapped, defensively, “I might actually be able to sleep. Stop wasting my time for once, and then I’ll consider my life outside of work.” His harsh words were blurted hastily, like he was desperate to get Martin to back off, but it was too early for Martin to take it and back down. 

“Sure, then. I’ll get everything you throw at me today, _properly,_ but you have to leave the office and have a proper weekend come 5 pm! In fact,” he thought, reminded of Tim and Sasha’s usual Friday nights. “You can go out with all of us.” He didn’t say it like an offer but rather a challenge. Hot or otherwise, Martin was doing his best not to be his boss’s punching bag. For once he wanted to push back, not have to take insults he only sort of deserved. It was spiteful and shallow, Martin knew, to use a situation Jon would probably be uncomfortable with as a threat, but he _desperately_ needed to prove himself, and there were worse bets than a night out with your new coworkers. 

He already knew Tim would be down for it. 

He watched Jon’s beautiful, tired eyes narrow and his shoulders shrug in a sharp breath. “Fine.” He had on the same expression he used when skeptically taking a statement apart. 

“Oh...uh, Good!” Martin left the tea and walked away, to nowhere in particular. In the hall, he passed an bemused Elias, who raised an eyebrow at his determined expression. 

* * *

It wasn’t really sheer determination, but rather the power of Sasha that got Martin through the day without a single mistake. After asking Tim about his opinion of the four of them going out for drinks, he was subjected to an only slightly humiliating interrogation on “Why do you want to go anywhere with _him_?” and “How do you expect to accomplish that?”. Eventually, he spilled the whole bet thing to his coworkers, and they were wholeheartedly onboard. 

This ended in Martin learning, with careful instructions, the art of sourcing and navigating databases, properly recording his findings, and handing every submission to Sasha for proofreading before handing it in. Even if he was doing well, Sasha could do _perfect._ Jon certainly threw more tasks at him than usual, but somehow all the statements were easily debunked and recent enough to track down, giving him less ammunition than there might have been. Martin couldn’t believe his good luck.

By 4:55, Jon hadn’t yelled Martin’s name once, and he was absolutely sure that he would be triumphantly sipping his IPA with everyone in less than an hour. It was a satisfying win. He could hear Tim’s leg tapping, and Sasha sitting up in her chair, waiting for the ominous black clock over the door to reach 5. They held a silent plan, to storm Jon’s office and drag him out before he could protest. They would fill the room with adamant demand and reassurances that “It can wait until tomorrow.” and “This will be good for morale.” and “There’s not even anything more to be done?” 

They never got the chance, as at 5:00 on the dot (or maybe even a few seconds before?) an extremely annoyed looking head archivist emerges from the cave of his office. “Martin, I will admit, you have outdone yourself for today. I am prepared to suffer the consequences of our agreement, and will, er, _hang out_ until 10pm at the latest.” He looked like he was already regretting saying this. “I make no promises to be good company.” 

Tim broke out in a loud, braying laugh at this. “Wow, boss. Eager, much?” His grin was wide, charming and self-satisfied. “Okay. Where to?” 

Martin froze with his coat halfway on. “I, um, didn’t think it would get this far, really.” He felt his satisfaction drain away into nervousness as he stalled. Did he even know any bars or nightclubs in the area? After he regained himself by a fraction he pulled his coat on all the way and stared at Tim with nervous eyes. _Help me out here._

Sasha helpfully suggested “I know a pub around here” in unison with Tim’s blurt of “Let’s go bar hopping!” The pair looked at eachother, grinned, and burst into a small shared laugh. 

Martin was honestly just happy that he didn’t have to come up with something on the fly. “Yes! That! I mean… we can do both. Each pick a bar and, well, go from one to the next until 10.” 

She picked up her purse, still smiling. “Sounds great! It’s not far.” She gave Jon a reassuring look. “It’s historical, you’ll find it interesting.” 

Jon huffed, still stiff, and Martin got the feeling he was not reassured. He smiled uneasily. 

The four of them shuffled out of the door and down the chilly, but not miserable road. As Sasha often complained, the Institute was in a good setting, but most of the shops and things in the area were a little overpriced. Martin figured that he would not spend a lot on drinks for the first round.

Sasha’s pub was squeezed between brick and Tudor buildings, and all that marked it as open was the swinging wooden sign and an iron lantern in front of a black wooden door. There was a small bronze plaque by the door, that recounted some of whatever history the building had. Martin wasn’t really interested in that kind of thing, but it was immediately obvious that Jon was. Next to the plaque were some old photographs of the pub itself. 

Jon read over the plaque with quick, nearly hungry eyes. “Built in 1792. Not bad, Sasha.” 

Inside, the L shaped bar looked charming, and had some odd looking jarred things on display by their olives and bottles of liquor. The menu did not boast of much that sounded interesting, but Martin was cheered to find that they were a free-bread-and-oil type of place. Sasha and Jon opted for red wine, something Martin was planning to avoid like the plague, and Tim went with bottle cider. Not the typical first round.

As he sipped his house ale and took a little too much bread, he tuned in to the conversation that was sputtering to a start. 

“So…what do you all think of Elias?” Tim asked, wiggling his eyebrows in a way that looked practiced. Martin paused. The first few days of working under Jon, he was terrified of Elias figuring out his secret, but now he feels rather like his hiring was part of an inside joke that Elias laughed about every time he passed. It was weird. 

Jon opened his mouth to speak, but it was Sahsa who scoffed aloud and tipped back her wine in a gesture that was not the dainty sipping she had started with. “Ugh! He’s never done anything _reportable_ , but man is that guy a creep! I don’t know what it is, really. He’s not like, greasy, sorry Jon, or the kind of boss that’s all touchy-feely, but I swear everytime he walks by I feel like I’m being _stared at._ Watched I’ve never actually caught him looking, but I know when I’m being ogled, right? It just… creeps me out.” She got more wine, and immediately drank that down too. 

Martin shifted awkwardly, meaning to reassure Sasha, when Tim cleared his throat. “Uh, Sash, I’m pretty sure Elias is gay.” He drew out the word ‘pretty’ and spoke with complete confidence. 

Her eyes widened with surprise. “And how would you know that.” 

He grinned a Cheshire grin and winked. “Oh, you know.” Martin briefly wondered if _that_ was why Tim got away with breaking the institute dress code so often. He shuddered at the idea of his probably 50-something year old institute head having sex with someone 20 years his junior. It was like thinking about your parents. 

At this, Jon sputtered a little into his glass. “We, uh, we heard him on the phone, back when we were in research. He’s got a husband, or an ex-husband. Please don’t assume that Tim is sleeping with Elias, of all people.” He coughed, and Martin thought that he might be flushed. Was he a lightweight? A small part of him thought it was a nice sight. The kind of thing he wished he could immortalize in poetic words. 

“Well, he’s still weird.” Sasha insisted. “But it’s good to know the entire institute isn’t straight. I wouldn’t want to feel estranged.” 

It was Martin’s turn to nearly spit. “I thought you went on a date with Tim, though?” He had sort of assumed they were still a casual thing.

Tim’s offended “Well some of us are bisexual.” Overlapped with Sasha’s “Once, and it was a clarifying mistake.” Martin’s cheeks grew hot empathetically as they moved away from each other slightly. He didn’t mean to make it awkward so early in the evening. He was also thankful he was mostly sober for the discussion of sexuality. It made it easier to act like he wasn’t currently falling for his boss.

Across from him, Jon looked like he was having the opposite conclusion. He had since forgone slowly enjoying the wine and was downing a decent amount from the bottle. It was clear that this was not a topic he wanted to have to delve into. 

Martin had a thought that made his heart give a tiny jump of hope. Was he not straight, either? Not that would give him any more reason to be interested in Martin, but his chances could be slightly better than zero, and that was something. 

“Besiiiides,” Tim drawled a little, “It’s not like the archives has any straight people, Sahsa. Look at us.” He gestured grandly to the other two men.

Martin was quick to argue “Hey, I’m… I’m not…” And in his panic he didn’t quite register that Jon was speaking too. 

“Tim please, you know that I don’t… You…” Jon groaned and put his head in his hands, his long fingers threading through his hair. The weak denial was enough to drop Martin’s heart into his stomach like a stone. Sasha went to pour more wine, only to realize they were already out. She frowned. 

“Look, we’re all done with our drinks. Why don’t we move on to wherever Martin wants to go?” She offered with slightly tipsy but still careful diplomacy. They had already paid, after all. Tim enthusiastically agreed, citing a severe lack of good fruity cocktails. 

* * *

Unfortunately, Martin’s favorite bar was not walking distance. After a few minutes of bickering, and a hasy reassurance, the four of them ended up squished together in a cab. Sasha triumphantly sat at the front as Jon, the smallest of them, was unceremoniously squished between Tim’s muscles and Martin’s soft but large form. Martin tried to control his breathing and desperately not think about how close Jon’s face was to his shoulder, or the fact that their outer thighs were pressed together to make room for Tim’s long legs. The fact that Jon was ever so slightly drunk, making him relaxed, warm and just unstable enough to lean against Martin’s side was entirely unfair. 

It was an aching relief when they piled out of the car and wandered into one of the three places Martin usually found himself outside of work. The bar was big, had a rustic, unpolished feel to it, and usually had a small time acoustic musician or too. Martin liked it there because it felt warm, and quiet, and they sometimes had interesting microbrews from Norway and America. 

Tim groaned immediately upon seeing the cocktail list “No, this won't do! Whatever happened to the classics? What the fuck is an ‘aspirin and lard’?” Despite his whining, he ordered an aggressively violet drink. 

Martin noticed one of his favorite drinks, imported from somewhere in Oregon, was on tap. In his delight, he may have drank a little more of it than he was planning. Not that it was much of a bother. He felt warm and amused, and could barely keep himself from responding to everything with a jolly laugh. 

That was when the music stopped. The man who had been playing smiled, and then quietly wheeled off the stage. 

A young, tattoo-covered lady with black hair and large piercings took over the stage. She scanned the crowd as a light fixed on her. “Hey, everyone!” She drew out the middle part of ‘hey’ as she spoke. “It’s Friday night, and you know what that means! It’s amatuer poetry night!” Some of the patrons nodded, and went back to their drinks. Others, Martin included, immediately perked up in their seats, and hurried to finish the last of their drinks. He hadn't attended a poetry night in a while, but back when he did, he was semi-successful. His mildly tipsy brain promised him he could come up with something wonderful on the fly. It didn’t occur to him that he might not _want_ his still-fairly new coworkers to see this side of him. He didn’t even care what the topic suggestion might be. He was having too good a time. 

The looks on the party’s faces when Martin stood to go onstage ranged from utter rage (Jon) to abject horror (Tim). Sasha was politely neutral in the way that someone is after being asked to try food they hate. 

“For God’s sake!” Jon cried after him, coughing harshly around his malt. It came out as a choked sputter, and it wasn’t nearly loud enough to affect Martin. 

He ended up sharing a particularly terrible poem. It didn’t rhyme, and the subject matter was unfortunately _intimate_.

By the time Martin returned, Jon’s face was a cherry red, a consequence of his humiliation and the volume of scotch (or ‘ _aqua vitae’_ as he told them in a matter-of-fact slur) he had consumed. Tim took one look at Martin, who was still feeling pretty proud of himself, and laughed so violently he tumbled out of his chair. Sasha looked like she was sorry for him, or maybe the man that would come around in the morning. 

Jon swayed, then turned to Martin, who reacted immediately. His breath hitched and he leaned away as Jon grabbed him by the shoulders, leaned in and groaned, “That….” he said, in a tone he used to describe the more disturbing statements, “Was terrible. If you do that again I will have you fired and… and…” He trailed off, still clearly a little upset. 

Martin pouted, but he was still alight with his slight buzz, and the words didn’t hurt nearly as much as it would have sober. “It was perfectly good! What, what do you know?” He did end up paying for the next round, though, and Jon took the gesture as a good enough apology. 

All of a sudden, Tim stood, crashing into the table and effectively spilling all their drinks. “That gave me a _great_ idea! Come on, we’ve gotta go while we still have time.” His grin was wide and seemed mischievous to the point of evil. 

* * *

Tim bounded down the street, his long legs carrying him away from the rest of the group. Sasha, who was only an inch or so shorter, trailed behind so that Jon, who’s steps were not entirely stable anymore, could hold a pretense of taking her arm like a gentleman. Martin was _most definitely not_ pouting about it. He was a grown man, and did _not_ need his boss to hold onto his arm. It was fine. Just fine. 

Tim’s bar was as colourful and loud as his Hawaiian shirt. Just as Martin was thanking God that it wasn’t a gay bar, or worse a strip club, he noticed the sign. All the cheer of the alcohol drained out of his system and was replaced with sweat and dread. _Karaoke._

Unfortunately, none of his other coworkers seemed to notice. Tim gleefully led on, the bastard, and found them all a semi-private alcove with direct access to the stage. For a Friday night, it was not as busy as he might have suspected, which was a small relief. He seemed to know the waitress, and immediately ordered ‘his usual’ with a wink. Martin got a random beer, he wasn’t really paying attention anymore, but he noticed Jon asked for coke with his whiskey. 

After his third or fourth drink of the night, Martin decided that Tim’s singing was pretty good, actually. Or maybe it was just that he looked pretty good flushed and on stage, his shirt almost all the way unbuttoned in a way that he might have done specifically to mess with Elias. His first song was a 70s ballad “Dedicated to all you ladies”, followed by “Dedicated to all you wonderful men” (another ballad, this time by Queen.) For a drunk man who rarely practiced, he had range. 

After he was tired of singing himself, Tim launched himself into a one-man campaign to get everyone else onstage. All the courage and pride that Martin had less than two hours ago was lost, and he found himself refusing with absolute mortification. Martin liked music, especially songs with beautiful lyrics, but he really couldn’t sing. 

Sasha was dared into going up next. She may not have been as drunk as Jon, but she was likely never going to back down to the likes of Tim. Her pitched-up rendition of ‘Bad Romance’ was not as good as the previous performance, but the crowd seemed to like the way she tore her hair down and did a little dance as she sang. When the song finished, however, she developed this devious look in her eye, and she stared at Jon until he reluctantly held her gaze. 

“ _Statement. Ends.”_

She didn’t quite make it off the stage before collapsing in on herself with laughter. She shakily made her way over to Tim and reached out for a high five- he scooped her up in a hug. “That’s my girl!” 

Despite her blinding smile, Sasha feigned offence. “I’m not anyone’s girl, Stoker.” She still kissed his cheek with a giggle. Martin looked over at Jon, nearly crying from laughter. The man gave him a dry look, but his lips twitched up into a smile he was barely fighting. Martin wished he would give him that smile more often. Every minute of every day, preferably. 

Tim and Sasha stopped their monkeying around, apparently fixed on a common target: Jon. Martin put his head in his hands and the two descended on him with what looked like practiced skill. Sandwiched between them, despite his protests, Jon had very little control of what he was and was not going to do. This resulted in him getting pushed gently towards the stage while Tim messed with the song choice. Martin forced himself to look, his face red with sympathetic humiliation. He really could not imagine what his singing could be like. 

Jon looked tired, and completely and utterly drunk. He swayed slightly when Sasha left his side to hand him the mic. 

A single piano note sounded from the stage, quiet, harmless, and instantly recognizable. Anyone who went to highschool after the year 2006 knew the song that was playing, and the first few notes brought memories of old emo phases and embarrassing actions with them. And then, the song started. 

Jon, weirdly, seemed to fall into a trance as the first words appeared on the screen, as if he had forgotten where he was in his state. He looked… relaxed, but confused and absent as well. His face was a close approximation of his usual dry stoicism. 

And then he opened his mouth.

Instead of mumbling poorly, as Martin had expected, or terrible crooning like Tim must have hoped for, Jon was reading out the lyrics in his low, dramatic ‘Head Archivist' voice. Jonathan Sims was reading ‘Welcome to the Black Parade’ as if it was a _statement_. He didn’t even falter as the song went through the entire intro.

> “ **He said, "Son, when you grow up would you be**
> 
> **The savior of the broken, the beaten and the damned?"**
> 
> **He said, "Will you defeat them? Your demons**
> 
> **And all the non-believers, the plans that they have made?** ”

Tim was _howling_ with laughter, while Sasha pulled out her phone to try and take video. For some reason, she was struggling, possibly due to her inebriated state. 

Martin’s ears were burning with the shared embarrassment for Jon, but he found himself laughing heartily and aloud. It was just so… silly. The ever-serious, stiff and prickly man in front of them, so unable to shake off his work that he brings it to his drunken karaoke sessions. It was hilarious in the kind of endearing way that made Martin weak. A small part of him, that would probably rise to the forefront on a later night, wondered if Jon was unable to detach from work at all. 

Then came the first guitar interlude and it looked like Jon snapped out of it. He looked up for the first time, seemingly now semi-aware of his surroundings. The drunken blush was back in full force, and he suddenly gave the crowd an attempted grin, something that reminded Martin more of Tim than it did of his boss. The twinkle in his eye was dark and daring and Martin was just about caught up in how that expression was going to kill him when Jon the first real verse of the song started.

_“Sometimes I get the feeling she's watching over me,”_

This time, he was singing. It wasn’t the tipsy, clumsy singing of Sasha or the dramatic and drawn out belting of Tim but it was _beautiful._ There was no way that Jonathan Sims was not some kind of singer at some point because even when he slurred slightly across his words, his low, slightly gravely was perfect. Had he been in a band? It was impossible to imagine, except for the current evidence of the onstage performance. He looked down at a lyrics screen, so that Martin could just see the glow of the screen reflecting in his eyes through thick, beautiful eyelashes. It hurt his pulsing head to reconcile the image with the snappish man at work and the gentle creature he had earlier found asleep. As he watched the man sing with perfect recall the song that haunted most people from their teen years, Martin was entranced. More than that, he was completely, undeniably in love.

He never stood a chance. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poem by John Keats. I did always love a sonnet.
> 
> Someone came up with the poem that Martin recited. Find it here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26120788


	2. When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon's morning after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I hope you like my short but fun new chapter! As always, a special thanks to Wam and Cormack, my bros and editors.

Jon woke up with a  _ raging _ headache. He fumbled for his glasses and managed to knock over a water bottle on his dresser that he had no memory of placing. He considered it briefly before having to lean against the wall as a wave of nausea washed over him. He grabbed the bottle, downed the water without question, and found his glasses neatly folded next to it.  _ That wasn’t right,  _ he thought. Usually, his glasses ended up dropped haphazardly onto the dresser as he stripped himself of his clothing and fell into bed. Looking down he realized with a start that he was still wearing his work clothes, although the shirt had been nearly completely unbuttoned, and his fly was down. He blinked and strained to see clearly through his glasses through the painful morning light. His memory stretched back to the last afternoon. He was dragged out on a pointless excursion by his assistants. They had gone to one, two bars? Martin had… A wave of heat and then more nausea hit Jon. The stupid poetry. He attempted valiantly to stand straight and get himself some coffee to help with the aftereffects of his overdrinking. 

Jon’s tiny, barren kitchen served its purpose. He could cook simple curries and stews in a slow cooker, eat bread and peanut butter, and make coffee. That was all he needed. That said, while it was never cluttered, Jon admittedly did not do the best job of keeping it clean. 

After a day of work and interacting with crowds on the streets and on the train, he usually had no energy to put into housework, and it wasn’t like the space was  _ filthy _ . However, as he groped around for coffee, a kettle and a spoon, he noticed that everything was rather neatly put away in logical places, and there was no debris on the counter. It was not like Jon to clean while drunk, and this… this meant he was missing something, something was  _ wrong.  _ It was moments like these that Jon cursed himself for not keeping something heavy and weapon like, maybe a hockey stick or a fire extinguisher, so that he would at least feel less exposed. He set his jaw, despite the pain throbbing in his head and went to investigate the next room over. 

He passed the bathroom, which was dark but otherwise looked completely exactly as he would have expected, complete with the razor on the counter he constantly forgot to use and the ever-leaky shower head. Well, at least something was normal. He bit back a pained groan and crept forward. 

Jon didn’t even notice the lump on his couch until he nearly tripped over it. He had kept the couch all the way through university and beyond, and he didn’t  _ like  _ looking at it. It had some unfortunate associations with people he missed, and was undeniably ugly. When a stretched out object on the couch touched his leg, he nearly jumped a foot in the air. There was a person. In his house. On his couch. Sleeping peacefully. 

He froze in place for what was probably shorter than it felt. Then he blinked, took a deep, slow breath, and forced his painful and stuttering brain to think. He recognized this man on his couch. Curly hair, large soft-looking form and stained but clearly previously ironed button-up.  _ Martin _ was sleeping on his couch, of all people. Well. Jon sighed softly, out of a stomach-turning mix of relief and exasperation. At least he wasn’t dangerous. 

Without the risk of any actual danger, Jon resolved that it could wait until  _ after _ a good drink of coffee and left the figure there, sleeping innocently while he quietly cursed out his kettle. While he waited for water to boil, Jon pressed his fingers to his head and tried furiously to remember what had happened between the last drink he could recall and waking up at home. It was going to be a long weekend. 

* * *

After about two hours of quietly drinking coffee in his kitchen, getting dressed and showering, all while carefully avoiding his own living room at any cost, Jon finally decided it was time to wake Martin. He didn’t really know how one was supposed to wake someone you did not want in your home, especially not on your couch, without coming off as completely rude, but he hadn’t really thought that far until he was standing above the couch and speaking. 

“Martin.” A few seconds of responseless silence. “Martin!” 

The man on his couch blinked and turned over to look at him with a bleary, puffy face that made Jon want to clench his jaw for reasons he didn’t understand. “Wha...Oh, Jon.” Martin sat up, stretching into a vulgar and unabashed yan. “Ah...Hullo.”

“Why. Are you. Here.” Jon had to push the words out of his mind in a way that made sense, because there was no  _ good, logical  _ way of asking your co-worker what the hell he was doing in your living room, nor a way of admitting you have no idea what transgressed the previous night. 

“Um… well.” Martin looked barely awake enough to establish thought but the words tumbled out of him as smoothly as his yawns. “You didn’t want to go home alone last night, don’t you remember? And Sasha went to have more drink and God knows what at Tim’s house and… well I kind of had to carry you to bed and then you insisted I stay, and I wasn’t exactly going to tell you  _ no,  _ so...” He barely was able to take a breath between his recollection of he last night, “And anyways, I wanted to be nice and help you clean up, because you fell asleep. Then I took the couch.” 

“Wait.” Jon interrupted him before he could ramble further. “We didn’t do anything...untoward last night, did we?” A pit of dread settled into his stomach. He couldn’t remember the events of last night, but if he asked Martin home, did he…? No, he  _ wouldn’t. _ Impossible.

Martin’s face changed from it’s usual colour to a rich, screaming red in a progression worthy of a time-lapse video award. That… was an answer in itself. “Well, I…. Yes, unfortunately.” 

“Oh good  _ Lord. _ ” Jon blurted before he could think, and then his mind was reeling. “And I… I was actually  _ interested? _ ” He cursed drunk Jon with all his might. What was he  _ thinking? _ He…he... ugh- and with  _ Martin _ of all people. 

He was in just enough control of himself to avoid going down the road of:  _ and Martin thought it was ‘unfortunate’.  _

“Well, uh, yes.” Martin answered, still bright red and answering with surprising clarity. “I don’t know if you liked the first stuff, but you were quite…. um….enthusiastic by the end of the night.” 

No. No no no no no. That couldn’t be right. Jon froze for a bit as he tried to comprehend what Martin meant and what that meant for him and his life as a whole. He squeezed his hand shut, took a deep shaky breath and  _ shut it down.  _ He could address that particular thought train in due time, thank you.

“Out!” Jon could not deal with any of this right now, he couldn’t allow himself to think further, he just needed Matin _out of his house._ It barely registered that his yelling caused Martin to flinch, and he might have been on the brink of tears. He sighed and counted to five before trying again in a lower voice “Get out of here. Please. I-” 

Martin, now terrified, jumped off the couch and scampered out the door, barely taking the time to put on his shoes. 

It was the very second the door clicked shut and Jon heard what he thought might be a  _ sob _ when he realized his mistake. “Oh, hell.” He grabbed his coat and keys without thinking and jogged after the man. “Martin, wait!” 

He caught down the hall, frozen and confused like a deer in the headlights. “Look. It’s… it’s not your fault.” He couldn’t tell if the other man was about to cry, but he  _ really  _ did not want that to happen. “I, uh,… I-” He bit his lip, somehow completely unable to apologize.  _ Damn it.  _ “Let me start over. I’ll buy you a cup of tea and some food in a shop, and see you home.” He sighed.  _ Great.  _ Smooth. 

It took an excruciatingly long minute for Martin to unfreeze and react. “Oh…. Oh, well, sure! I-it’s not like I had any other plans…” Jon felt relief wash over his body as Martin gave him a strained but forgiving smile.   


* * *

They settled for a small cafe near Jon’s flat. Jon took nothing, and fidgeted his hands as Martin sipped Irish breakfast and talked through a mouthful of scone. “So, how much of last night do you remember, Jon? You were drinking quite a lot.”

Jon’s mouth felt like sand, which did nothing for his already miserable existence. “Well, I recall a pub, and then a bar. I don’t know how many drinks I had, but I remember your.... _ performance. _ ” Jon put his hands to his hair. “And that’s when it gets all fuzzy.” 

Martin nodded understandingly. This time, thankfully, he waited to swallow his bite of scone before speaking. “You missed the worst parts of it, then. Tim got you and Sasha drunk enough to perform karaoke. Honestly, I thought that was what you were so upset about. It’s not exactly dignified…. Not that you aren’t a good singer! Because. Well. You are. I think…Did you used to be in a choir or something because…oh, nevermind.” He quickly busied his mouth with his tea before he could keep speaking.

Jon stopped fidgeting for the first time since they sat down. He balled up his fists and rested them on the table with a tense but not slamming gesture. “Wait. That was the worst part? Just some singing?” It would be just like him to have this whole scenario be a massive misunderstanding. 

“Yeah, pretty much. Then, I walked you home and you passed out almost immediately.” Martin shrugged. “I’m glad you got some rest.” 

“I…. I’m glad, too.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, how the turn tables. I really identify with Martin more, but Jon is pretty relatable with his awkwardness.


	3. And think that I may never live to trace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An incident regarding... a bagel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Featuring: Lots of Tim! I love Tim, but he's so hard to write without feeling somehow personally involved on some kind of astral level so I won't be doing it much.

Martin was still early on the following Monday. It felt right to start his day before anyone was in the archives, and scroll through pictures of Welsh corgis until Jon came with the sunrise, to let them both in. 

As expected Jon arrived well before the 9 am start of work, and briskly opened the door. However, when he passed by and Martin started with “Good Morning, Jon!” There was cold, hard silence. Martin’s bright smile faded a little as he watched his boss storm into his office without a word. His heart sank with it. He didn’t realize how really nice those ‘good mornings’ were. This was not a good start to the day. 

He made everyone’s drink as he did every morning, and after gingerly leaving a mug (he had one picked out for each person) on all of the assistants’ desks, he crept over to the looming door. ‘HEAD ARCHIVIST’ the door read in plain sticker letter font, mocking him. He raised his hand. Hesitated. Knocked. 

“Uh, Jon? I brought you some tea.” Martin couldn’t mess that up, he knew exactly what Jon wanted. English breakfast, no sugar, with the tea bag left in too long. He used to wonder if the over-steeping was a form of self-punishment, or just a last-ditch attempt replacing at sleep with caffeine.

A low, noncommittal noise emerged from the door. Did that count as an invitation? “O-okay, I’ll just leave it on your desk and go.” He pushed the door open and rushed to the desk, left the mug on the corner and made to leave. If Jon was too busy to look him in the eye, well, that just made this whole situation over that much faster, right? He didn’t look up as he shuffled out. Martin was so tense that he didn’t notice the small “Uh” that Jon made when he set down the mug until he was already out of room.

“Right.” He stopped himself from shifting nervously from foot to foot and moved to his desk. There were three boxes of files and manila envelopes that seemed to have been shoved haphazardly in each. Jon had helpfully left them, with a small note on what he wanted in each box. Well, that was nice, at least. He could do that. The organizational bit was something he was used to from the library. He pulled out the first file and began to skim it’s contents. 

Tim burst open the door to the archives. His blue button-down offered a tasteful view of his collarbones and chest hair, in a minor breach of dress code Martin could never pull off. It was one of his best shirts. 

“Hello, Martin! Had a good weekend, did you?” He took his chair from his desk, brought it up to Martin’s and straddled it. “Tell me, did you finally get topped by the boss?” 

Martin sputtered so hard he drove his leg up into his desk. “Shit!” He felt his face heat up. This was really not the kind of embarrassment he needed this morning. He put his hands up to his head. 

It was probably fine! Tim didn’t know anything, he was just making a little joke, right? Because he went home with Jon. Tim might be one of the most emotionally attuned, most intelligent researchers in the whole institute, but it wasn’t like Martin was being obvious. At least, that felt better to tell himself. 

“V-very funny, Tim.You know that I wouldn't do  _ that.  _ I was just… you know- making sure he got back alright. I’m not even into- well he’s not...” He stumbled through the words that were perfectly fine in his head, but were not making it out quite right. He ended up pouting a little as Tim cut him off with a hearty laugh. 

“I’m just messing with you, buddy! I know Jon would never let people in his gremlin-hole of a house.” Tim leaned forward so he could rest his head on his palms. “He probably bullied you off.” 

“A-actually, I ended up sleeping on his couch!” Martin squeaked, and immediately regretted the pitch of his voice. But he felt the need to defend Jon. He wasn’t that bad, not really. Just a little prickly at the edges. 

“Really?” Tim sat up in earnest. “He must have been really out of it. I didn’t think he even liked you.” He said this in an offhand way, but it was enough to break Martin’s heart just a little. It was true, after all. 

“He did kick me out, though. And bought me breakfast? Honestly I wasn’t sure if he was mad at me or not until this morning, but he is  _ definitely  _ angry.” He felt Tim gently pat his arm and met his look of gentle but still amused pity. 

“Oh, he’ll come around by this afternoon. Unless he doesn't, but that just makes him an old ass that can’t have fun.” He shrugged and moved back to his desk as Sasha walked in with a bakery box. 

“Good morning! I brought goodies.” She dropped it enthusiastically on Martin’s desk, the closest desk to the door. “Help yourself.” She then immediately settled in to do her work, professional as always. 

It was calm for a while, Jon still holed up in his office, and mild chatter kept up by Tim as they read, databased and researched. 

* * *

Hours later, Martin was busy heating his lunch of leftover mushroom sisig when he ran into Jon for the first time since his arrival at work. He felt a smile immediately tug at his face. Jon had haphazardly pinned his hair up with a little clip, and it was slipping terribly down one side of his head. It was a ridiculous sight, but the man made it look  _ good.  _

“Oh. Hi!” Martin greeted, trying awkwardly to step out of the way and allow access to the toaster and cupboards next to the microwave. “Good to see that you’re um, up! And getting lunch.” On bad days, the only thing Jon would consume was tea and assorted snacks left by others on his desk. If he was in document storage, he wouldn’t eat at all. It was sort of a worrisome habit, to get so absorbed in work that he forgoes food and drink. 

Jon looked up from the printout in his hands. “What? Oh, Martin. Yes, Sasha handed me a bagel and promised to take over recording while I ate.” He lifted the cheese bagel as if to demonstrate what it was. 

“Oh, that makes sense. It’s really nice of her to bring in baked goods, honestly. Sasha’s quite nice.” He fidgeted glancing between Jon, who went back to reading, and the microwave timer, still ticking down for a few minutes. “So…” 

He watched, trying his damndest not to stare as Jon let down his hair, put down the papers and fetched a bread knife. Uncombed and damaged as it clearly was, Jon’s hair was a mystifying and beautiful thing. It was totally unfair that he got long, dark and fluffy-looking curls with dignified bits of silver. Martin’s hair was just like everyone else’s. 

Then, to his horror, Jon turned the bagel over in his hand, put the knife to the top of it, and began to saw down, towards his own hand. Before he could even comprehend what he was thinking, Martin stepped forward and tried to stop him. “You can’t cut your bread like that! You’ll cut yourself.” 

Jon looked up at him with a glare that put a cold stone in his stomach, but kept cutting, now not even bothering to look at what he was doing. 

“Really, Martin, I'm not a child, I don't need supervision making my-

ARGH!” 

The knife slipped. A flash of ‘I told you so’ was immediately replaced with ‘Are you okay?’ and then ‘Oh God, is that blood?’ in Martin’s head, so that when he began to blurt it out he said “I-okay, uh- Oh my God.” He grabbed a paper towel from the sink and thrust it at Jon, who dropped the bagel and held up his hand, still screaming in surprise and pain. 

“Here are some napkins, uh, uhm-”

* * *

“...And that’s how I learned that the dating scene in Kingston is abysmal.” Tim finished, using a carefully tailored smile on the new cutie temps hired for the busy season. It would be a few hours of mildly flirtatious conversation, and a well placed joke, then he’d get a phone number he’ll never use. He had a reputation to maintain, after all.

From the room they were passing, the lower-floor break room, a familiar voice let out a strangled scream. 

“One second, that's my boss.” He ducked out of the path they were on and turned towards the door with a smooth, hair-bouncing nod. “See you around.” 

He awkwardly ran the rest of the way. What had Jon gotten himself into this time? If this was another just slightly larger-than-normal spider... 

He turned through the doorway. Jon was bleeding from one hand, and covering his eyes with the other. There was a knife on the floor. Martin was paler than normal, and flapping his hands wildly. 

“Oh, hell.” 

* * *

It was like a scene out of a movie. One minute, Martin was frantically trying to stop (or at least slow) the blood gushing out of Jon’s hand, the next Tim was in front of him, yelling “Woah, woah” and stripping off his well-fitting button up shirt. 

“What happened?” Tim asked, looking unfairly put-together for someone mid-crisis. 

“He cut himself!” Martin gasped, gesturing at the now abandoned bread knife on the floor. He still wasn’t really processing what was going on, and was really not prepared for a shirtless coworker this early in the week. He felt his heart in his throat as he tried to process through the waves of fuzzy panic.

He watched, still horrified, as Tim brought his shirt to his mouth. “I can make a tourniquet.” He bit down on the sleeve, attempting to tear it, and in that moment Martin was nearly convinced this  _ was _ a movie. Jon was hurt, bleeding everywhere, and Tim was stepping into the role of capable hero while Martin was left there, useless once again. The shirt did not tear easily.

“Damn, why’s this so hard?” Tim mumbled around his shirt.

Then something slammed from the doorway and reality rushed back in. 

Before Martin was finished figuring out what the hell Tim thought he was doing, Sasha appeared in front of them both and all but smacked Tim out of the way. Martin’s eyes fell on the roll of gauze and medical tape in her hand. She used the other hand to get Tim’s shirt out of his mouth.

“What are you doing?” she scolded, and Martin began to feel even worse. This was all drowned out when she began to wrap around the gash on Jon’s hand, and a stream of incoherent noises poured out of his mouth. Suddenly there was not much else going on in Martin’s universe except the fact that Jon was crying. Sure, he was also hissing, cursing and sputtering in pain, but there were shiny trails beginning to form at the corners on his eyes. 

Martin took Jon’s other hand and let him dig his nails into his wrist. He tried to say something reassuring but ended up leaving his mouth open and then closing it again. There probably wasn’t anything good to say. 

He watched as Sasha, still wrapping up Jon’s hand with precise care, shifted a glare in his direction, and then at Tim. “You know, there’s a first aid kit above the sink.” She said. 

“Well.” Tim’s voice was a lot more embarrassed than usual, and he sounded hurt. “How was I supposed to know that?” 

Sasha studied her handiwork and taped it down. “He needs a hospital. Did any of you drive here?” 

Martin felt the blood flush to his face, not wanting to admit that even if he could drive, he could never afford a car. In his own defence he blurted, “This is London!” 

Sasha didn’t wait to hear the rest. “Tim, ask Rosie if you can borrow-”

Tim cut her off. “I’ve got it. Come on.” 

Martin tried to help Jon up by his hand, but it was clear his knees had gone weak at the sight of the blood. Slowly, gently, he began to try to carry the smaller man. 

Sasha, however, was first. “Tim, you need to carry Jon.” 

To Martin’s dismay and Jon’s protest, he was hoisted up until he was practically thrown over Tim’s shoulder. “You need to eat more, boss. I’ve carried canoes heavier than you.” 

Jon responded with another sputtering series of sounds, and then a sigh. “I’m fine Tim. Let me-” 

This time, Martin could actually get a word in. “Jon, you obviously need medical attention. You’re  _ not _ fine, and you won’t be, until we get you to the A&E. Just someone help you for once in you life.” 

That was apparently enough to quiet Jon on the topic. With some difficulty, they made it through the stairwell and out of the institute. 

“It’s by the shrubbery,” Tim called, fishing his keys out and tossing them to Martin. The keychain with it’s flamboyant array of charms and souvenir bits seemed to burn into his hand. Pleadingly, he handed them to Sasha, who seemed to understand. 

Tim owned a sports compact car that was all black, fairly new, and had a bumper sticker that read “Spooky” in purple font. 

Jon saw the sticker and began to say something harsh about it when he was unceremoniously shoved into the back seat. 

“We’ll address  _ that _ later.” Sasha promised, her voice stern but amused.

“Actually, I’d prefer never.” Tim replied, and the two took up the front and passenger seat, leaving Martin to squeeze his form in next to Jon. 

* * *

The ride was uncomfortable, long and worrisome. By now Jon had stopped making pained sounds, but he felt numb, and probably looked a shade grayer. He knew that he was an adult, and a professional and there was no reason he should feel faint at the sight of his own blood, but that never stopped the dizzy, suffocating fear that locked up his legs every time he got a bad cut. 

Even now, while all bandaged up and on the way to the hospital, he felt the urge to unclench himself just slightly, give into that woozy feeling, and slip into the grey void of unconsciousness.

However, Martin, with his infuriating coddling and fretting kept his attention with light touches and pitiful attempts at conversation. It didn’t help that due to sheer size, Jon had no option but to lean up against the man, twice now in as many weeks. He was warm, and his sweater was soft.

It was bad enough he was missing work. 

Once they were there, he demanded, with less force than he would have liked, that everyone get back to work and he was fine, thank you, just drop him off on the curb. 

Martin wouldn’t take that, apparently, and Jon only relented to be escorted into the building on the admission that Martin would probably be too busy worrying and fidgeting to get any damn work done. 

It was almost an entire infuriating hour before the doctor finally agreed to see him. Martin, who had dutifully sat with him the entire time and offered up his phone  _ every time  _ he saw a Facebook post with a cat on it, finally let him go in on his own, promising to be waiting when they were done, to walk him home. Again. Jon was starting to get rather uncomfortable how often Martin was going to see his flat. But he wasn’t exactly in a position to turn him down, either.

The doctor told him that he wouldn’t have needed stitches if the cut wasn’t directly in the center of his palm, tutted a little at the haphazard first aid, and fixed him up. He did end up fainting when they started sewing together his skin. It was a good thing that Martin had not been there, or Jon would probably never have heard the end of it. 

When he came to, everything was already all bandaged up. The doctor and an unfamiliar nurse were standing over him, trying to get him to look at them and he could barely understand what they were saying. After a few minutes of stammering, questions about the year and figuring out what the hell was going on, they explained what treatments he needed. He had been given a little bit of saline, and some new dressings for the morning. He fidgeted though the doctor’s instructions, trying to avoid groaning in displeasure. While he wasn’t  _ unused _ to tending his own injuries, he never liked the mess of it. 

After it all was finally done with, it was darker outside. His phone told him it was nearly 5 pm. So much for getting back to work. 

Of course, when he stepped back out into the waiting room, pulling his jacket carefully back on, Martin was there, waiting patiently, now with a plastic bag on his lap. When he saw Jon, his face lit up in a painfully bright smile that he immediately hated. It just made him feel… weird.

“Are you… are you all good, Jon?” Martin asked. Jon hoped that this wasn’t going to be another hour session of over-worrying and cloying  _ pity.  _

“Yes. They, uh, fixed it all up. Just have to re-bandage it every day.” He held up the bag he was given for dressings. He prayed Martin would not pry further. 

Luckily, he didn’t. Instead, Jon found himself with a cold sandwich pressed into his hand. “What’s this?” 

“Egg and cress sandwich.” Martin replied, leaving it with him and digging his hand into the bag again. “I know you missed lunch, after all.” He pulled out a bottle of apple juice. “Here, you should drink something, too.” 

Jon found himself eating a surprisingly good egg sandwich while listening to Martin talk and talk. At first it was about work, and the things Sasha and Tim were able to find out about the latest statements that didn’t seem to be total dead ends. Then, he moved onto other things, nothing too personal. The recent weather. The bits of graffiti that he noticed and how he used to use them to figure out how far he was from home. His recent consideration of becoming vegetarian, after reading a grisly account about meat. 

Jon would never admit it, but it was ...pleasant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to Cormack, my editor, my friend, my muse.


	4. Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Martin is just trying to keep his boss alive, even before all the spooky stuff starts happening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter will really explore the stranger habits Jon might have, hopefully not too out of character.  
> He is rather heavily implied here to have autism.

It took another week for Jon to realize his mistake. Martin was like a dog- or whatever the opposite of that would look like. He took food from him  _ once _ and now it felt like every time he walked into his office, there was another random packaged and processed excuse for sustenance that had been left there for his convenience. Almost all of it was completely inedible. 

First it had just been chocolate biscuits, a package left behind with his tea. Those had found their way to the staff break room, where they might actually be appreciated. Jon had nothing against biscuits, or chocolates specifically, but they were not exactly good, and the residue left behind was atrocious, especially if he was trying to work.

Then granola bars, a bunch of grains and chocolates and nuts all glued together in a sticky, miserable mess. They sat on his desk for a week until Tim snatched them one by one. 

Once those were gone, there was a short respite, and then on a sleepy Tuesday morning he found his desk had an ugly red package of jerky. The imagined smell of it was enough to make him nauseous, and he ended up nearly throwing it at Tim’s desk as soon as Martin left to make tea. He would normally have given Martin’s feelings no account and berated the man for his poor food choices, but something that vaguely reminded him of Georgie held him back. It wasn’t worth it anyways, he decided, and did his best not to sulk. 

The unfortunate gifts did get Jon to eat, but in a roundabout way. He would reject the food, sure, but occasionally it reminded him that the last time he had something decent to eat was the morning before, and he would consider lunch, after the disgust had passed. 

But not always.

Elias had begun to come around more often, and as a result Jon felt the need to push through statements faster than ever. They seemed to get more gruesome, awful and draining. Jon slowly began to forget the last time he slept, much less ate. 

That was the first time he accepted the food. A personal sized bag of crisps had been left, probably a double of whatever Martin had gotten with his lunch. Jon tore through them, trying not to think of the grease on his hands or the churning feeling in his stomach. When he was finally able to get the oily film off his fingers, he realized he actually felt a little better.

The next day, when the package showed up again, he was in a good enough mood to return them to Martin’s desk with a note explaining that  _ thank you, but I won’t sustainably be able to eat these, it's not exactly healthy  _ in more eloquent words. Trying, for reasons that eluded him, to let the man down easily. Well, more easily than the usual curt, overly honest language he inflicted upon Martin. He was haunted by the pain of hunger and the revulsion of bad food throughout the rest of the day. 

He woke up at his desk with no memory of falling asleep. There was ink on his face where his pen, still in hand, had pressed into his cheek. Shit. The wall clock read 4:15, and it took one look out the lonely basement window to know that he had been there overnight. Jon took a breath in, intending to let out a deep sigh, and cut himself off with a pained groan. Desks were not an ideal sleeping surface. The thought of getting up for something to drink crossed his mind, but the file on his desk beckoned at him. The words at the end of it were jumbled and finally cut off, and he would probably have to restart the whole thought. Tea could wait. 

Tea did wait. He almost got through the whole statement and was recording his final thoughts when a hesitant knock came at the door. He shut the recorder off with a sigh, still aching. “What is it?” 

Martin, because of course it was  _ Martin,  _ popped his infuriating blithe face into the room. “Good morning, Jon! Did you get here early?”

Jon bit his tongue through his groan. “I- No. I fell asleep at the desk. Please let me finish this. Good morning, Martin.” There. He had fulfilled the conversation and now he could stop talking. Any and all distractions from the work brought back the sensations he had blocked out. He  _ needed  _ to get back to work. 

Martin just gave him a smile that felt wholly inappropriate as a response to his obvious message of ‘back off’ and hummed, softly. “I’ll bring you some tea.”

He didn’t even register when miraculously some time later, tea and an apple appeared on his desk. He devoured both without even looking up, hating the way breaking the apple’s waxy skin felt on his teeth. 

The first time he left his office in two days was to go and see Elias. However much work he had to get done, the demands on Elias were more directly tied to his paycheck, and he might even be able to ask for some leeway, not that he thought he deserved it. Elias, pretentious as always, gave him a look of judgment upon seeing his uncombed hair and now wrinkled shirt. Yes, yes, he thought. This is how I represent your institute and your archives. Jon kept this to himself. Elias didn’t even have anything of actual importance to say, and he was getting tired of the way his body had begun to rudely ask for his audience again. 

He did wash his face and attempt to retie his hair in the sink, though. No reason to get written up if he could avoid it. 

When he got back, several packets of peanuts, the kind offered at bars and on airplanes, had been placed on his desk. He scarfed them down, and within minutes, he felt his work speed up and his energy return. The next time Martin came by with tea, he even thanked him reluctantly. At least he was good for something. 

* * *

Martin was  _ this close  _ to checking mum forums for picky children. He just wanted Jon, his boss and a man who he cared far too much about, to stay alive. That was apparently too much to ask. 

At first, he thought the problem was pride. Jon was clearly the kind of man that would never accept care from other people if he thought it was out of pity or condescension. It was a fairly good reason for him to ignore all of Martin’s efforts to get him to _ eat _ , damnit. Jon did start eating lunch more after the first few attempts, even if he did return or regift all of Martin’s offerings, and for a little while it felt like it made sense and was working.

Then, it all seemed to reverse. Martin stopped being the first person to the archives, even though he still arrived at the same time. He wasn’t even sure if Jon went home, he was so focused on getting more statements recorded. This meant terrible things for Martin. His normally overwhelming job was now even busier, and his clever plan to keep his favorite boss alive was no longer working. He still tried his best to leave snacks when he could, but eventually a bag of crisps ended back up on his desk, featuring a note that might have been nice, or possibly passive aggressive.  _ I’m grateful, _ the card had started, and ended with  _ please refrain from doing so.  _ Frustrated, he threw the package in the bin and tried his best to focus back on his work. 

The next day, he found Jon at his desk as he walked in. He looked terrible. He was clearly in the same clothes as the day before, and the bags under his eyes had gone from barely noticeable shadows to deep-set pockets of exhaustion. His hair stuck to his forehead at odd angles and was falling out of what was once a bun. It was frustrating in a way that made his heart ache. 

At least, he consoled himself, he still said ‘good morning’ to me today. He went to the kitchen and took the apple out of his bag, and when he returned with the best chance he had in ensuring that Jon ate even a little for breakfast. Then, he barely had time to think about it further, because the minute Sasha came in through the door, they were buried under another mountain of work. 

At this point, Martin realized he was much better at finding and reshelving statements and resources than he was at research or recording. At least organization was something he had experience in, having worked in a library for a while. So, Sasha and Tim ended up doing a lot more of the follow-ups while he scrambled around, picking up random files that found themselves on the floor and finding the most logical place for “singing coffin” and “empty misty graveyard” before they were shelved away more permanently by number.

The only problems with this were 1) Jon still believed that anything that did not run like a full team of researchers was anywhere from inadequate to useless entirely, and 2) it required him to do a lot of bending down, and Tim had a habit of lightheartedly wolf-whistling. Martin was pretty sure it was a joke, but with Tim it was hard to be certain. It wasn’t uncomfortable or anything- Martin didn’t think Tim had it in him to be actually creepy- but however funny he was being he really didn’t need to talk to Elias about sexual harassment ever again. 

When lunch finally rolled around, Tim disappeared, leaving Martin to walk to the break room and make idle conversation with Sasha as they walked. “Why do you keep leaving stuff on Jon’s desk?” She asked, with an innocence that was just pointed enough that he was pretty sure she had her own ideas on the matter. 

“Oh, the food? I just want to be nice. I don’t think he takes care of himself much.” Martin hoped that she’d buy that he was just a caring friend, not desperately trying to get his boss to like him. 

She raised an eyebrow, but quickly returned her expression to neutral curiosity. “Okay, that’s really sweet of you. Still, you know he’s a grown man, right? With a bigger paycheck than yours. You don’t have to feed him.” 

Martin nodded. “I-I want to. I don’t mind, and it does seem to actually help, even if not directly.” 

She gave him an understanding look. “That’s awfully kind.” Then, she turned to her lunch, and Martin moved to his typical sandwich and chips. 

* * *

Tim returned as Jon was called away into Elias’s office, and took it as an opportunity to slack off. He had obviously just returned from a bar, and was using individually wrapped portions of peanuts as an arsenal to pelt Martin with. 

The area around his desk was soon surrounded with little plastic bags. On the other side of the room, Tim’s desk was completely fine. Despite laughingly telling Tim to stop, Martin made no move to retaliate. That is, until one package smacked him right between his eyes. 

That was it. Martin took a stress ball off of his desk, a sunny blue thing covered in little clouds, and threw it back at Tim, with enough force to make a satisfying thunk on his chest.

Sasha took that moment to walk in. “Martin!” She scolded like a tired babysitter. Tim shrugged with a sheepish smile, and tossed back yet another package of peanuts. 

“Where the hell are you getting all of these? Also, stop it, Jon could be back any minute!” Martin scrambled to collect as many of the packages off his desk and the floor around it as possible. 

“A bartender was being a dick to me, and it was the least illegal idea my drunk brain had last night.” Tim answered cheerily. “It was worth it, but now I need to figure out what to do with all these peanuts.” 

“Well, don’t throw them at me.” Martin replied, and he brushed most of the packages into the top drawer of his desk. Free food was free food, after all. After a moment of thought, he grabbed a handful and moved over to Jon’s office. Might as well offer a few while he had them. 

Jon came back from the meeting looking as annoyed as ever, but his hair was combed back into his usual semi-professional bun, and he was clearly trying to stand taller. As usual, he disappeared into his office and the low murmur of his voice could be heard just enough to tell he was reading a statement aloud. Martin databased the laptop recordings, and then returned to shelving documents and sorting boxes of statements as Tim took notes and Sasha tried to access some protected system. 

After about an hour or so of that, it was already time for tea. Martin made his way to the canteen, grabbed some mugs and started with the water. English breakfast, no sugar, leave the bag in. Earl Grey, with milk. Any tea, milk and five sugars. 

His own cup of Irish breakfast with a little milk and one sugar. The fact he already had so well practiced making tea the way people liked was a source of pride. He grabbed a biscuit or two for the others, and headed back. Sasha smiled at him, melting the scowl she had been aiming at her computer before he walked in. Tim thanked him and drank his tea much faster than should have been pleasant. Martin wasn’t sure he could actually taste it. 

When he tiptoed into Jon’s office, he was just wrapping up the statement supplemental, so Martin waited patiently for him to finish speaking. Then, with a shy smile, he offered the cup, knowing that trying to speak would result in his face heating up and the stutter he worked so hard to move past returning to his speech. He braced to be yelled at. 

Jon, to his surprise, softened his expression when he looked up. “Oh, wonderful. And thank you for the peanuts and things. I… uh, I really can’t remember if I ate over the weekend, and it did help with my work. It’s appreciated.” 

Emotions washed over Martin in competing waves. First and foremost was the relief at Jon’s good mood. Not being yelled at was a refreshing experience. Then a warm feeling tugged at his chest at the awkward but sincere way that Jon was speaking to him, thanking him, even. Then the worry hit him as he realized this meant that the only things that Jon has probably eaten in  _ three days _ were the snacks Martin provided. 

He was going to have to start bringing him meals. 

It was only after Jon cleared his throat that Martin realized he had been standing without responding for longer than it should have taken. “You’re, ah, always welcome, Jon. I make tea and bring snacks for everyone.” He was already calculating how much it would cost to buy one more meal every day. He could probably make it work. He left with what he hoped was a charming smile. Tim could probably do better. 

Jon was going to be a lot more work than he previously considered.

* * *

It was no secret that while Martin was pretty good with sweets, he could not cook well at all. Part of this stemmed from the fact that his upbringing had such opposite ideas of cuisine, as well as a solid dose of lack of culinary talent. Knowing this, he resorted to going to the store that evening, buying all manner of pre-made and instant foods, as he usually did on weekends for himself and his mum. This time, however, he tried to keep Jon in mind. A small, ugly voice in the back of his mind reminded him that he didn’t actually know his boss that well, just that he was apparently very picky. 

He ended up getting a little of everything. Pot noodles, canned soup, frozen lasagna, those space-age packets of various curries, even a package of freeze-dried stroganoff that looked pretty okay. 

At least one of them had to go over well, right? 

* * *

Jon was thoroughly disgusted. 

A small, easily squashed part of him reminded him that Martin was just trying to get him to eat meals, which was kind, if misguided. However, nothing offended Jon to the point of fury like the taunting yellow package of tikka masala. 

English instant curries at best were a horrible bastardization of a cultural history of South Asian spiced dishes, not even close to comparing. The true symbol of the Londoner habit of taking anything and making it flat, bland and lifeless. 

This was not the best. It was, in fact, not even a true Indian dish. Tikka masala was a Scottish excuse to placate the British people’s disgusting need for dripping, gravied and otherwise flavorless meat. It wasn’t even spicy.

After that, all of the foods were some variation of  _ wrong. _ Some kind of slippery, chunky and  _ frozen,  _ or  _ freeze dried _ and drenched in messy but not flavorful sauce. He could feel the textures, slimy and somehow still powdery on the back of his tongue, reminding him of and nearly inducing vomit. 

It was all going to go right back where it came from.

Martin came back from investigating the jigsaw lady to a dripping plastic shopping bag on his desk. Underneath it was a small lecture written and torn out of a lined notebook. 

> _ Martin- _
> 
> __ _ First, I appreciate the sentiment behind these. However, I would prefer you not waste your meager salary on what I assume is food for me. Despite what you seem to think, I am an adult man. I have survived quite a number of years on this planet without your existence, and even more without it being forced upon me. I will not tolerate being treated like a child. If this is some attempt to imply that you are capable, I assure you your work in the Archives has already proven otherwise. I have already asked you to refrain from this behavior. I will not ask again. _
> 
> _  
>  _ _ Sincerely, _
> 
> _ J. Sims _
> 
> _ Head _ _ Archivist of the Magnus Institute _

Oh God. 

Martin willed back the wave of anxiety and dejection that tried to flood him. He very carefully took the bag back and put it away. He was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He needed to stop getting ahead of himself, thinking he was helping. Of course he was only making it worse. 

He pushed it away. He needed to work. 

Martin was numb through Tim’s persistent jokes and Sasha’s concerned looks. 

He didn’t see Jon at all that day. 

* * *

Martin backed off, because he knew he should. He tried to get over it, because he thought he could. But he didn't stop worrying about Jon. He was overworking again, they could all see it. Long gone were the days where Martin was the first one in the institute. However early he arrived, the door was already open and lights already on. The entire team couldn’t convince Jon to go out for even the smallest lunch outings, and Martin was convinced he wasn’t even going home on weekends. 

Still, he tried to stay completely uninvolved. Jon was an adult and presumably took care of himself for 38 or however many years. If he wanted to worry about a handsome man, he could offer to chaperone the next time Tim hit up a nightclub. 

Martin tried. He took lunch with Sasha outside of the institute, went out for drinks with Tim on Friday nights. He got through downloading 88% of Grindr before thinking better of it. He still tried to make Jon tea. 

And then, Jon locked himself in the office. He only opened the door to demand another statement, or to snatch it from the hands of the person who followed the order. It lasted for days, where the only time he seemed to leave was to use the toilets or if Elias demanded it. 

Martin couldn’t watch. The mild worry that simmered in the background of his life expanded into a constant, nagging mix of anxiety and frustration. Jon’s feelings be damned, he  _ needed  _ to help. 

Perhaps, he considered, this was just his personal calling. To take care of people who loathed you for it, and probably never wanted to see you again. He pushed the thought back with the force of his frustration. That wasn’t fair to Jon, or himself. 

“Hey, Tim. Do you still have that giant bag of trail mix? The one you bought for camping?” Martin asked, staring at the door to the office that a very disheveled Jon had finally left for 5 minutes. 

“Uh, yeah. Should, anyways. Why, do you want some?” Tim reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a bag that was big enough to make a loud thud on the desk. 

“Do you think we should give it to Jon? He hasn’t eaten since he went in there…” Martin gestured towards the door to Jon’s office, still open by a crack. Jon knew the trail mix was Tim’s, so it’s not like it would trace back to Martin, should Jon be upset. 

Tim shrugged. “Not like I’ll get to go camping in the next few weeks. Not sure he’ll eat it, though.” He let Martin pick up the bad and haul it in. There was not a single inch of Jon’s desk that was clear, so Martin left the bag in the chair that was supposed to be for statement givers. 

He left the door ajar behind him, and Tim gave him a conspiratorial wink. They went back to work, and he let the worry seep away. There. He did something. Now he should leave it be. 

* * *

The next morning he found Jon in the now unlocked office, messing with a series of small dishes on his desk. Curious, he looked into them as he offered the usual tea, and was struck with a realization that would have made this whole ordeal a lot easier. Jon had sorted the trail mix into specific little dishes so that each type of nut and raisin was in its own container. Despite the strangeness of this system, he was obviously eating them. He must prefer foods that weren’t mixed. No wonder this wasn’t working.

He left with this new knowledge of his boss, and the beginnings of a plan. 

* * *

The following day, Martin left a pink floral box on Jon’s desk. The note on the top read: 

_ Did you know that Sasha knows how to arrange bento boxes? :) _

and was signed from all three archival assistants, at Tim’s insistence that Martin not get into any worse a position with their boss. 

Inside, was carefully portioned out vegetables, chicken and rice, all neatly partitioned into their own compartment inside the box.

It was empty on Martin’s desk by the end of the day, with a scrawled  _ Thank You _ and a small wad of crumpled notes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special Thanks to Cormack, my personal Jonathan Sims. Please, continue to roast my work and write passive aggressive notes for me to use.  
> And to Wam, for beta reading. 
> 
> Jon is a really easy character to reflect on autism with, at least to me. He's competent, just socially difficult and odd. I hope you liked my interpretation. If you have any issue with it, please let me know, and I can see how I can improve on it.
> 
> \---------------------------------------------  
> I will probably be updating much slower after this, due to other projects and lack of ideas. If you have an idea about a filler chapter I should write, you can contact me at read-watch-sleep on tumblr.com. 
> 
> Don't worry, there is still more to come.


	5. Before high-piled books, in charact'ry,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even wonder how a man with no regard for his own pleasure (but plenty of regard for a certain man) takes his tea?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for my new friend Cinna! (https://cinnamoniic.tumblr.com/)  
> It's a short chapter, but I only had one night to write it.

Martin had a mission. A mission of utmost importance. If he failed, he was destined to lose his job. And quite possibly die. Hopefully not in that order. 

At least he had Tim and Sasha to back him up, although he was sure their motivations were not  _ exactly  _ the same as his. Sasha probably saw it as a puzzle, a series of small experiments that satisfied the burning curiosity she applied to just about everything that she did. Tim just liked to show off what he gleaned from his favorite American cooking shows. 

Their unspoken rotation of who took back the faded flower box from Jon’s desk and filled it with neatly separated vegetables and bits of cheese or leftover grilled meat and white rice became a constant. Sasha had an extensive list of what foods were good, what foods were bad. Jon always paid them back and thanked them, albeit clumsily. It became a rhythm, which became a habit. And it was nice.

But that also gave Martin time to worry about other things, and one of those other things was tea. He might not have had a traditional English upbringing, but if there was one thing he wholeheartedly embraced it was the inherent power of tea. Every kind teacher, school-provided counsellor and well meaning family friend had shown him that. And if anyone needed a little warmth with cream and sugar in his life, it was Jon. 

But, whatever the infuriating, rude and absolutely gorgeous man drank was not any of those things. He clearly only drank tea for the caffeine, and if asked would demand only hot water and a black tea bag that he never took out, whether it was an earl grey so strongly steeped it was like drinking Martin’s bergamot soap, or a spoiled sour jasmine. And Martin’s mission was all about showing him what a good, proper cuppa was like. Perhaps he could get Jon to even like (or just tolerate, at this point) him in the process. 

There were several issues with this. 

The first was that while Martin brought  _ everyone _ in the archives a cup of something first thing in the morning, and then again in the afternoon, Jon almost always refused at least one of these offerings every day. Usually just because he was busy, but sometimes it just seemed that he didn’t enjoy the drink itself very much. Not all that surprising, Martin supposed, considering how he took it.

There was also the fact that Jon despised the other niceties of tea, like biscuits. Martin would at first proffer a different small dry sweet with every cup, until Jon straight up told him to stop. “I can’t stand the things,” he had said. “They crumble like dust and taste like sand.” Martin could still remember the way his nose wrinkled at the thought, which would have hurt more if it wasn’t so cute. It was an accident that found the solution to that one: soft cookies without any bits of fruit or chocolate in, the kind Martin could bake without spending a lot of money. On one of his lunchbox days, usually a round-sliced sausage and whatever frozen vegetables he had on hand, Martin added a few homemade almond cookies, which were noticeably well received. 

Today the problem was, no matter when Martin showed up to check on him, Jon already had a steaming mug. Martin had of course made him tea when they came in, that happened every day. But after that, well. It was almost like Jon suddenly had an infinite supply of tea wherever he went. He had one on his desk when he gave people assignments midmorning, clutched in his hand as he stormed into document storage, balanced on a book as he talked to Tim. It almost made Martin jealous. Tea for Jon was  _ his _ thing. 

* * *

It wasn’t until after lunch that Martin realized there was something off about the mug. By that point, however, he was trying much too hard to finish his current assignment. He had a suspicion he would need a hand with it. 

He walked over, intending to ask, but Tim and Sasha had left for a break. He found them in the breakroom, with Sasha sipping a lemonade, and Tim swinging his legs back and forth from the counter. 

“Do you think Martin wears anything but knit jumpers?” Tim wondered aloud, as he walked in, giving him a look that earned him a pout and an indignant. “Hey!”

Sasha considered this. “You know he has a shirt on under there. You can see the collar. The real question is if Jon has ever worn a T-shirt. I can’t picture him in anything other than his work stuff.”

“Oh, Sash, that’s not the point! What I’m saying is that there’s definitely something Martin’s hiding under all that grandpa attire, and if it takes a personal Stoker-style makeover, then that’s what it takes.” He shot Martin a winning grin.

“There’s nothing wrong with my jumpers. They’re comfy.” Martin frowned. 

“Of course not,” Sasha was quick to assure.

“But I bet I could get everyone here 100% hotter,” Tim insisted. “I wonder if Jon would try skinny jeans?”

“Tim!” 

They all broke out into laughter, which stopped as Martin walked over to grab the leftover of his lunch. Might as well finish it while he was here. He opened the tupperware box and wandered towards the microwave.

“Would one of you mind helping me out with this report I’m supposed to be doing? I don’t think I’ll get it to Jon’s liking on my…” 

He opened the door to the microwave. Inside was a very familiar mug. He looked at it closer, and realized. It was the same mug that he’d seen with Jon all day. The mug he’d picked out to make tea in that morning, in fact. 

“What?” He blurted.

He pulled out the cup, frigid to his touch. Inside was what looked like india ink, a translucent brown so dark it might have been black. A sad, bloated teabag floated near the edges. It was equally familiar. 

In his puzzlement, he failed to notice Jon swoop into the breakroom behind him. 

“Don’t throw that out!” 

Martin almost dropped the cup as the voice that haunted his dreams shouted from behind him, and the man that accompanied it hurriedly shoved past him to get at the tea. 

“Thank you. It’s mine, I’ll just reheat it.” Jon said as Martin stumbled back from the microwave. Taking his moving as permission to use the appliance, Jon put the mug in, with the teabag still in it, and set the timer. 

“Boss, are you  _ microwaving  _ that! That’s like, tea blasphemy!” Tim called out, laughing.

“Not like you have room to talk, Mr. Five Sugars,” Sasha shot back, not willing to miss the chance to tease Tim. 

Martin still stood dumbfounded.

“It’s perfectly good tea.” Jon muttered, poorly hiding embarrassment. “I wouldn’t want to drink it  _ cold _ .” 

“Wha-What, wait, Jon.” Martin stuttered, finally finding his voice. “Why is your tea cold in the first place? And you left it in the microwave?”

Jon’s feeble attempt to appear composed was slipping rapidly. “Well, I’m a very busy man. I might have forgotten it between statements a few times, and well. I forgot it in the microwave, too.” 

Martin, now over the initial shock, wasn’t sure if he ought to be offended, or amused. “Well, don’t  _ microwave  _ it. That’ll ruin all the flavor, especially with the bag still in! You throw it out and make up a new one.”

Jon moved as if to defend the microwave holding his tea. “No! I mean… I wouldn’t want it to go to waste. I’ve been reheating it thus far, and it suits me just fine.” He crosses his arms in front of his chest in a gesture that in any other situation would be intimidating. 

Tim was still tickled by the concept of microwave tea. “That’s gotta be disgusting, boss!” 

Jon’s scowl deepened. “It is when it’s  _ cold.” _

Martin shook his head, and moved closer. “Tell you what. I’ll make you a fresh cup, as many fresh cups of tea as you want, and I promise not to let that stuff in the microwave go to waste. In return, you must promise me never to sully the name of tea by doing that ever again.” He didn’t wait for a response, just moved over to the kettle and the small stash of teabags he kept.

__ Jon looked conflicted as Martin made the best cup of tea he could muster, a simple black blend with a drop or so of milk and two sugars, but reluctantly took the cup. If he was trying to hide the wide-eyed look of pleasure and surprise as he took a sip, he did a terrible job. Martin hummed with pride. He had refused to leave the teabag in.

The microwave tea was delegated to Sasha’s office plants. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Cormack, again. Love you.


End file.
